


Poker in the Front

by squirtysadist



Series: until the rescue [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Country & Western, Dubious Consent, F/F, Master/Servant, POV Second Person, Poker, Strip Poker, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirtysadist/pseuds/squirtysadist
Summary: She owns you, and if she wants to undress you and bet your maidenhood on a game of poker, she will.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: until the rescue [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080092
Kudos: 44





	Poker in the Front

The bar is loud and stinks of tobacco and whiskey. Laughter breaks out across the table as you return with Master’s drink, setting it on the table.

“Thank’s, Sugar,” she says, before slapping your ass as you go to stand back up.

You freeze, biting your tongue, knowing better than to react. It’ll only encourage her, after all. 

You go to step back, return to your chair in the corner of the room, but she snatches at your wrist as you turn away, before pulling you into her lap. You squeak, and she takes it as permission to grope at your chest, laughing as she makes you yelp again. “Master!”

She laughs again, and then settles, pulling you firmer onto her lap until she’s uncomfortable with your weight. And then she reaches out and tugs your chin to face her.

“We’ve decided to up the wager,” she tells you, lifting her hand to curl a lock of hair behind your ear. “Care to guess?” They’d been playing for over an hour, the men already deep into their drinks. 

“Aren’t you betting with money?” she asks––after all, what has more worth around here than money?

“Oh, yes, well it looks like I’m all out,” she says, gesturing to the table with a playful demeanour. You flick your eyes to the pot and notice a relatively tidy sum sitting there, along with a few rings, a single necklace, and other trinkets that didn’t belong to Master, but likely the other players of the table. “I want a chance to win it back.”

Laughter breaks out across the table, and you have a horrible feeling that it’s somehow directed at you. An inch begins between your shoulder blades, and you turn to look back at her and then the pot.

There was no way she would part with her gun or horse, which left only one option.

 _You_.

You swallow and look at her. “Is it me?” you ask. 

“Mm. Almost,” her gloved hand lifts and tugs at the collar of your dress, before smoothing the collar down across your collarbone. “You see, there is one thing we could bet on. And I thought…perhaps these fine gentlemen required some lovely new clothes for their wives.”

You felt a shudder slip down your spine. _Shit_ , you realise with sudden dread. She’d bet clothes. _Your clothes_. 

“Why?”

“Because fine clothes such as yours are so hard to come by in parts around here.” You flush, knowing that’s not true. Whilst the travelling dress was of a particular standard quality. It was in no way _clean_.

You realise then that it’s not about the _clothes_. It’s about losing them.

“Now, I’ve already lost a hand while you were off getting us drinks, and I believe that means I owe these fine gentlemen something?”

The _gentlemen––_ though the term is used loosely––in question begin to howl and hoot, hands drumming on the table before falling into a fit of laughter. Their grins are wide and leering as they stare at you over their drinks, licking their lips. 

“All of them?”

“Oh, no Sugar, it was only a single round. I still have a pot to win back.” She pulls her head back to admire you, eyes dragging over your body, “How about…” she begins, and you feel her hands slide down, before tugging in question at the belt around your waist. All at once, you feel as it’s unbuckled, before sliding off. 

“Please,” you say to her in a low whisper, so the men don’t overhear. “I don’t want to play this game.”

“I need to win back my money. So be a _good girl_ and hope that I can get it back, hmm?” 

You clench your jaw and settle on her lap, watching as the belt is placed onto the table. The men are obviously unhappy at the choice but return to their game, anticipation prickling over them in what will happen next. 

Master’s cards are terrible, but you’ve seen her win with a worse hand. Sitting in her lap, you watch as she sips at her whiskey, swapping stories of gunslinging adventures with the other men before it comes time to call.

There, hands are revealed. 

“Pair,” she says, flipping her cards. 

“Flush” comes the response.

“Oh dear,” Master says, looking at you, “Guess we’ll need to pay up.” She slides her hand over your dress, down your thigh, your calf until she cames to your shoes. There, she unlaces the boot and gives it a sharp tug, pulling it off.

You watched as she drops it on the table, tossing back her cards to be reshuffled and dealt out. And then a new round begins and is quickly lost, your other shoe joining.

“Careful,” one of the men says. “You’re quickly running out of clothes.”

“There are still a few layers,” Master responds, taking a mouthful of whiskey before she looks at you. 

Her smirk is cruel, and you’re beginning to suspect she’s intentionally losing. 

The men continue to pile money in, ordering drinks from the bar and watching you squirm on Master’s lap. When another round is called, your Master loses again––making a joke about _lucky at cards, unlucky in love_.

And then she adjusts you in her lap, ready to make her choice.

You’re confident she’s going to choose the dress, it’s the most obvious choice, the last remaining _outside_ layer. But her hands draw up, underneath your skirt. 

She watches you, eyes holding yours steady, a grin widening on her mouth as her fingers slid over your drawers, sliding purposefully across your cunt, back and forth with no subtly to what she’s doing.

The men snicker, and you stare at her, “ _Please Master_.”

“Please, _what_?” she asks.

“Please don’t do this,” you say. 

Even through your drawers, you can feel her stroking intently, circling over your clit and then down, across your slit. You bite your bottom lip, hands curling into fists as you try not to whimper. Despite the situation, despite the horror of the humiliation of how _open_ it is, you can feel your arousal growing––an ache grows for her to finish what she starts, despite how much you want to pull away. 

“I could make you come, right here on my lap. Would you like that?”

You look away, hands curling tighter, eyes squeezing shut as you will yourself not to cry. She snatches at your jaw with her other hand, yanking it to face her. “ _I asked you a question_ ,” she snarls.

“Can’t you just play your game of cards?”

Her expression turns furious, and then her fingers grasp around the drawers, yanking, then ripping them down your thighs with a sudden jerk. It hurts, and you hiss as you feel her tug them again, down your calves. 

You glare at her, chest heaving as you feel the humiliation burn through your cheeks as she lifts the visibly wet underwear and drops them to the pot. 

“Behave,” she says mirthlessly, “Or _you_ will be the next thing in that pot.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and you swallow, before looking away. It’d been a mistake to antagonise her.

The next hand is played slowly, lazily with anticipation across the table, eyes flick to you, eyeing your clothes before they return to their game. 

“Fold,” she says, as one of the men reveal two pairs. You go to argue, _knowing_ what cards she has only for her to turn and face you. The shadows fall from the brim of her hat, dragging low across her face, as the hand around your waist digs in, warning you of what she’s capable of. 

You know, intimately, of what she can do to you if she so chooses. 

You swallow back your words and watch as the men drunkenly laugh to each other, elbows nudging for what’s about to come next.

She pushes you off her lap and then sits back in the chair, her expression still hard as she gives the nod to the pot, topping with your clothes, dwarfing the small amounts of coin and wares. The game had initially meant to be a few rounds of poker, but you can see now that it’s become a game about power. Her power over you, and she will happily lose every last coin she has to watch your dignity become squashed underneath the heel of her boot.

_So be it._

Standing tall, you undo the dress and pull it off, tossing it the pile. You stand before her in your camisole, the corset underneath, acting as the last gatekeepers of your modesty. Keeping your hands at your sides, you tilt your chin up at her. 

“Get us a drink,” she sniffs, turning back to the table. 

You draw in a breath and look around the room. It’d quietened with your undress, but if anyone is to question it, they soon turn the other way when they noticed the brand on your shoulder. You are _hers_ for all intents and purposes. She can do whatever she damn likes until your debt is paid.

You walk over to the bar, standing tall, barefoot in front of it. A hand slap your ass from a patron, stinging through the camisole.

You gritted your teeth, standing firm.

“Two whiskeys,” you say. 

The bartender gives you a look, before shaking his head. 

With the drinks in hand, you return to the table, setting them down before Master and watch as she grinned up at you, her mood apparently returning to good spirits. “Got something for you,” she says and tosses you a boot. _Your_ boot.

You place it on, but leave it unlaced, sure that she’ll lose it again in the next round.

She doesn’t pull you back to her lap. Instead, she leans forward in her chair, revelling in tobacco and whiskey as she converses with her so-called friends. She tells them of your attempts of escape, how horrified you’d been the first time you saw her shoot a guy dead, the way she made you watch as she tortured a man for information about another gunslinger. All the while, she _laughs_ with them as if it’s all a joke. As if your reactions were _unnatural_.

“I can break her in if you like,” one of the men says.

“I’m plenty _breaking her in_ ,” she says with a smirk. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Her friends laugh, and the mess of emotions in your stomach only turns further. 

You’re cold, tired and hungry. You don’t want to be here any more, don’t want to be around the stench of horses and sweat and tobacco. You want your clothes back, and you want to be buried deep in your bedroll.

“Here ya go,” she said, all the warning before she tosses another boot at you.

Catching it, you place it on. She has a pile of coins before her again, but your dress remained in the pot with your drawers. 

She’s playing with you. Letting you know that _she_ chooses the spoils and your modesty is not it today.

You watch another hand rise and fall, more coin moved from the pot to your Master, and despite yourself, you grow hopeful. The men are loud and drunk. Although your Master has been drinking with them, there are fewer glasses before her than before them.

Another hand is played. She has a _shit_ hand.

One of the men call slurs his words as he calls her bluff, and this time, you’re hoping that she’ll place the coin in for the pot. Or a shoe, or––

“Come here,” she says.

You swallow, stepping before her. She tugs you close and lifts your leg, setting your booted foot between her legs, as if she was considering taking the shoe. And then her hands draw up your calf, up your leg and you realise with sudden dread as she stares up at you, what she’s planning. 

She pulled out a knife faster than you can react, and in two short _rips_ with the knife, the straps of the camisoles sleeves are cut from your shoulders. 

The material falls, catching at the swell of your hips and belly.

“ _There_ we go,” she says, revealing you in your corset. The knife is sheathed away before her hand comes to rest on your waist before she yanks the camisole down your hips.

You close your eyes, setting your foot to the ground as the material drops down your legs, to the floor. There, her hand grabs at the newly exposed skin of your ass, that’s bare for the entire table to see, and grabs it firmly. 

There, the men roar with cheers, banging their hands on the table and demanding you to turn around. Master’s eyes slide down to where your pubic hair is, the last modesty you have, though it hardly feels that way when you can feel how wet you are despite the humiliation that burns hot over your chest and face. 

“Don’t you look good enough to eat?”

“I want to go back to camp,” you say to her, clenching your jaw as you feel your chin wobble. “Can I—? “

“Dressed in nothing but this? A girl will get raped in such a state,” she warns. “We wouldn’t want _that_ now, would we, Sugar?”

You stare at her, watching the wolfish grin widen. Back, before all this had begun, before you’d ever seen her, you would very occasionally see coyotes come up close to the town. You’d rather face a pack of them than her. 

You blink and look away, feeling tears spill down your face as she gives another squeeze of your ass and then laughs, turning to look at the men. 

You’re tugged back into her lap, and for that, there is a small mercy. Master is warm in her leathers, and the table at least partially hides your nudity from the others. Nonetheless, you shiver against her body, digging closer for warmth only––so you tell yourself, though her hand around your waist hols you steady, her trench coat falling over your thighs as she plays another hand. 

In the new hand she plays with intense focus, your humiliation isn’t the attention. And if you try very hard, you could be thankful it wasn’t worse.

“I bet the girl’s maidenhood,” she says. “ _All in_ ,” and shoves her pile into the centre.

Fear slides coldly through your veins. 

The men had asked, had practically tried to shove money into her hands for your maidenhead, but she’d grinned, making snide comments that if anyone were going to _break you in_ , it’d be her. 

Somehow, between then and now, she’s changed her mind.

“Master,” you whisper, “Please, I’ll do anything––not that, _please_.”

“Hush, see if the men accept first.”

“We do,” one of them says, but he’s swaying in his seat. Hiccuping every few seconds.

“ _Master_.”

“I said _hush_ ,” she glares. When you quieten, her expression softens, picking at her cards. One of them drops unconscious on the table, folds early, and it leaves your Master against the hiccuping man.

You watch and wait. The call occurs, and he flicks his cards over. Straight.

Master flicks hers over, _Straight flush._

“Oh, would you look at that, Sugar,” she says, and you peer over at the table, watching the pot before her grow. 

She stands up and picks up your dress and pushing it into your hands. There’s a slow, “ _Hey wait a minute_ ,” from the one man who’s still awake, but Master ignores him as she opens up her pouch and pulls the coins and jewellery into it.

You pull your dress on, lacing up your boots as you watch the guy stumbles back, before dropping forward onto the table, reaching for her cards. “How’d—how’d you… _get that_?”

“I played you,” she said, tipping her hat him. “Always a pleasure.” And then she was leading you outside as the guy slipped unconscious at the table, the alcohol finally taking hold. 

“This was your plan, wasn’t it?” you ask as you exit outside. She gives a half-shrug, unbothered as she walks to where your horse is. “You could have told me.” 

“It works better if the bait isn’t aware she’s bait,” she tells you, eyebrow arching to make her point clear. In front of the bar, she unties your horse and then climbs up, onto the saddle before reaching out a hand to you.

You hesitate, considering just for a moment what she will do––after all, she had threatened to sell you off. But it was a game to her, and you doubted she would. Your maidenhead was _hers. She’d_ made that plenty clear. 

Lifting your hand out, you take hers, allowing her to pull you into the saddle, before her. You adjust your dress, settling in the seat as you feel her hips press against the back of your own.

“I want new drawers,” you tell her.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she says, and you felt her hand begin to shift underneath your dress, slipping underneath the skirts. “I think I like you like this.”

She leads the horse out of town. The dirt road is dark, lit only by the crescent moon in the sky. Outside, the streets are empty, with everyone safety tucked away in their houses. You press back against her, letting your self sigh as her fingers begin to stroke at your cunt.

You hate her, hate her with every fibre of your body.

But when she strokes you like this, with one hand around your waist, holding you firm to her as her head rests on your shoulder, it’s easy to pretend for a moment that maybe she could be nice to you.

Maybe you want her to be nice to her.

You come, in the saddle, under the stars with a gasp and a soft, “ _Good girl_ ,” whispered in your ear.


End file.
